


Such a Funny Thing

by BB_Glitz



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, Flashbacks, My Undying Love for Diane Lane, Romance, The Rarest, but here comes the angst, rarepair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-04 00:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11543502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BB_Glitz/pseuds/BB_Glitz
Summary: They yearned for something that was theirs alone.After all, it had been so long.Why not?





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic and the pairing were inspired by a seed of an idea in a lovely fic I read. Go read "This Side of the Stars" by architeuthis. 
> 
>  
> 
> Title from "Crazy In Love" by Beyoncé as covered by Sofia Karlberg.

Martha Kent wasn’t lying that first weekend.

She was staying with a friend.

Earlier that week, she gave her shifts to Marla because the girl desperately needed the extra hours.

For the first time in many years, she relished the possibilities stretched out before her.

A light breeze greeted her Thursday morning when she stepped onto the porch with her coffee.

Heading into Metropolis seemed like a good idea.

“Hey Gen, it’s Martha. Yes, yes, I’m good. I know this is last minute, but I’m free---fly me out? I can find my way there you know but all right,” she says.

Martha met Genevieve Keating during her second year at a secluded liberal arts college when they both tried out for crew.

The morning of her flight Martha stared at her closet.

‘What the hell’ she thought.

She slipped into the _501_ skinnies she bought on impulse. Over her head went the slightly cropped cream sweater with the bold black stripes.

Martha almost bounced downstairs with her beat up black suede loafers in one hand and purse in the other.

A few strands of hair escaped the knot at her nape and along her temples. She nervously pushed them behind her ears. They don’t stay.

Martha took a fortifying breath, locked the front door and jumped into the old pick-up.

\---------------------

In the quiet of Gen’s apartment, the din of the city below barely registered.

“Did you want to rest up before we head out?” Gen asked.

“Oh god no,” Martha said.

“Gen---at my age, I nap every chance I get and I’m sick to death of sleeping at noon on a Saturday. Let’s just go out,” Martha replied.

In the silver light, Martha slid on the wayfarers she bought at the airport.

Amid the crowd they strolled arm-in-arm toward Gen’s favorite book shop.

“They have the good shit there, not just stodgy dead white guys,” Gen said.

“Oh thank god,” Martha replied.

\----------------------------------

  
Inside, shafts of light play among the shadows and land on the spines lining the shelves.

Martha goes hunting for Baldwin while Gen zeroes in on Anaïs Nin.

The humble facade belies the depth of the store.

Martha passes twelve long bookshelves on either side before she finds the section she needs.

Amber light from the dusty pendants don’t shed the best light, so she pulls out her phone to turn on its light.

She sees daylight coming from a little window in the corner, so she pockets her phone.

Martha pulls the stool over and reaches for the book she wants on the top shelf.

She’s average height, but her fingertips barely graze the bottom of the book.

She huffs.

A knock on the shelf behind her startles her out of her thoughts.

“Need some help?”

Martha peers through the shadows at the tall man. He levels her with a sharp, although not unpleasant, gaze.

He comes closer and then they’re at eye level.

She thinks she sees an ember of interest, but ‘no---that’s not right’ she says to herself.

Martha sighs and looks away only to start gesturing awkwardly at the top shelf.

“That one. Baldwin. Can’t quite get it,” she admits.

The man nods.

\------------------------

  
As a boy, Bruce would spend his Saturdays curled up in his father’s favorite chair in the library surrounded by stacks of books.

Piles of science fiction, mounds of poetry and stacks of military history threatened to topple over before Alfred intervened.

He takes a deep breath when he thinks of the manor where memories cling to smoked out corners.

Today, he ventured out to _Ophelia’s_ across the bay.

The older woman behind the desk smiles and nods when he enters. If she recognizes him, she doesn’t let on and that suits him just fine.

Bruce has become accustomed to pressing his body into the darkest corners so he ventures deeper into the bowels of the shop that escape the interest of casual visitors.

He’s just letting his feet carry him, but he stop when he catches movement in the periphery.

Bruce doesn’t indulge in prurient desires often, but this time is slightly different.

The late summer light silhouettes a woman stretching for a book just out of reach.

His gaze catches on the sliver of creamy skin peeking over the top of her jeans as she extends herself for a second time.

Bruce knocks on the side of the shelf to get her attention. She startles.

Old habits and all that.

Her eyes could be brown, but hazel seems more accurate.

Bruce sees self-consciousness writ large on her lovely face.

He easily reaches for the volume. Bruce begins to slip the book into her waiting palm, but he holds it a little longer.

“I’m Martha,” she says into the heavy silence.

He finally lets go.

“Bruce. Interesting choice,” he says.

“Um, yeah. I...just needed to hear from someone more unmoored than I am. So,” Martha says.

Bruce hums and nods.

“Zola?” she asks.

“I needed to remember,” he says.

Martha waits for him to go on, but he never does.

They head to the front and pay.

She turns to Bruce at the door, but she can’t find words at the moment. His gaze warms and he smiles.

‘Almost a smile.’ she thinks when she remembers later.

Gen hangs back to watch the scene play out.

“Have lunch with me,” he says.

Martha finds herself chuckling nervously at this handsome---younger--- man before she quickly recovers.

“I’m with a friend, so---”

“Tomorrow then. We can meet here,” he replies confidently.

“Did I say yes?” she shoots back.

“Not in so many words. See you tomorrow _Martha_ ,” he says.

Martha laughs once he’s left.

Gen raises a brow and nods back at the shop when Martha looks over.

“Oh, his name is Bruce. Wants to meet for lunch. It’s nothing,” Martha says.

A beat of silence.

“Spare me Genevieve.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Martha rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses. Then, she stops walking.

“Gen…”

“Borrow anything you want,” Gen says. 


	2. Lunch

Martha tugged at the hem of the navy sheath dress for the fifth time in ten minutes. 

It fit perfectly.

She dashed to the mirror in the entryway but stopped at the sharp pull on her shoulder. 

Gen gently slid the pink velcro roller from the crown of her head. 

Martha rolled her eyes while she tousled her hair. 

Her friend grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her slightly.

The air shifted for the oncoming pep talk. 

“Like you said, it’s nothing. It’s just lunch,”Gen said. 

Martha nods somewhat lamely. 

“Jones’ll drive you---” Gen starts. 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll just---” Martha said. 

“Martha if you wanna beg off at least get an  _ Uber.  _ You’re not taking the subway,” Gen said. 

Martha gives her a flat look that serves as a white flag. 

 

\----------------

The driver idles at the curb next to the book shop. 

Martha can’t miss Bruce’s sharp figure against the faded brick facade. 

She takes a fortifying breath before she meets him on the sidewalk. 

“Hi there,” Martha says shyly.  

She nearly misses the “you look lovely” for the way his gaze slides over her body. 

“Where are we headed?” she asks.

“It’s just up ahead,” he replies. 

Martha wonders when they’ll stop as she looks over her shoulder at the last three restaurants they pass.

They stop behind a crowd blocking half of the sidewalk. 

She aims a quizzical look at Bruce. 

“Oh we’re here. They have the best burritos,” he says. 

She aims a ‘who the fuck are you’ look in his direction, but he seems unbothered.   

“Oh good,” she says.   

 

\---------------------

Martha fights with brushing her curls from her eyes while grappling with the overflowing tortilla.

“So what brings you to Metropolis?” he asks.

Her mouth is still full. 

“Oh...change of scenery. You?”

He’s about to answer when a cacophony of voices rushes toward them.

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!”

Martha finds herself being herded into a nearby alley that she didn’t notice. 

“What the hell?” she says. 

Suddenly, recognition flashes in Martha’s eyes. 

She remembers his strong jaw and dark gaze from that billboard for some airline. 

Martha notices the minute shift in his expression. 

He seemed charming if a little narcissistic, but now he stares from a rigid, unmoving face. 

“Will this be a problem?” he says.

“Only if I stay next to this dumpster for the rest of our date,” Martha replies.

His face softens. 

“Come on. I know a place.” 

They end up at the pier. 

 

\--------------------------

Last Sunday seems like a world away as she stares at dust motes on a bleary Tuesday. 

Martha mechanically pours coffee, wipes tabletops, and takes out the trash. 

At home, she checks her email. 

A message with no subject rises above the hill of the usual junk selected for deletion. 

============

 

**To: Martha**

 

**I hope the start of the week finds you well.**

**I will be in the Midwest next week if you would do me the honor of having dinner with me.**

**We will sit at a table this time. Promise.**

 

**Bruce**

=============

Martha smiles even as she tamps down on her excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm currently working on the next chapter and I have written some more for this so I updated the tags.
> 
> Thanks for reading so far. :D


	3. Summer Loving or Summer of '75

_Martha spent much of her time with hypocrites._

_When they weren’t writhing around in the back seats of a friend of a friend’s car, lighting up on the weekend or writing essays due in two days, they were protesting the goddamn war._

_At any love-in, she was surrounded by manor-born transplants, yet she was one of few not seeking to piss off their parents._

_Her mother and father were a part of that segment of poll respondents who didn’t have an opinion on Vietnam._

_She supposed that taking a stance at all was rebellious in and of itself._

_Not that it mattered in the end._

_\---------------_

_Genevieve Keating wrestled the biting grip of campus security as they dragged her away from the Loahm’s building._

_Martha got tired of screaming herself hoarse every week._

_But someone had to be Gen’s keeper._

_Rusty red scrawl two feet high crisscrossed the north façade of the clubhouse._

_‘DIE IMPERIALIST SCUM’ clashed with the lime-washed brick that had recently been restored in honor of the club’s centennial._

_Martha had an entire afternoon after she left the last organic chemistry lecture._

_So she had plenty of time to pace in front of the dean’s office._

_Gen’s worn but gleaming black boots echoed across the quad as she strode down the steps._

_Martha shook her head._

_“Right on Keats but honestly, what the ever living fuck?” Martha says fondly._

_Gen shrugged._

_“Had it coming. They use our hard earned money to support war mongers and murder,” she replied._

_“If you got expelled, who am I am gonna hang with? That mook from Phi Beta who won’t take a hint? The Silver Spooners obsessed with Proust? Did you think about that?” Martha rants._

_“The thought never occurred.”_

_“Plus, who’s gonna be my wingman? I can’t flirt worth a damn,” Martha continues._

_“Ugh. If you won’t close the deal with Jon, I will.”_

_Half-moon divots flare with heat after Martha pinches her ass._

_Gen slaps each Levi-clad cheek._

_Martha yelps and giggles._

_All is right._

_\-----------------_

_Thick beads of sweat curl the hair at Martha’s temples._

_She spent an hour taming her bangs to feather only for the summer heat to ruin her efforts._

_She steps over the threshold of the smoky bar and pastes on an aloof expression._

_Martha looks around and then spots Gen in the corner between two guys._

_She apes Rita Hayworth in that old movie she saw as she slinks over._

_The one with the wolfish grin turns his burning gaze on her._

_“Marty!”_

_Martha waves limply._

_The Jagger look-a-like across from the wolf snickers into his beer._

_Martha plops into the booth._

_She tugs at her top more than the little halter deserves._

_“This is James,” Gen says tilting her head to the left, “and this is Phil. They’re on tour right now.”_

_“Oh? A band?” Martha asks lamely._

_“Uh-hmm,” the wolf---James answers._

_“Phillip here is very concerned with the state of music. Says disco is a problem,” Gen says._

_‘Figures--- Keats’ll still blow him by the end of the night’ Martha thinks._

_James watches Martha out of the corner of his eye while nursing his beer._

_“You wanna go talk in private?” he asks._

_“Talk?”_

_His eyes linger on her halter top. She finds she doesn’t mind._

_“Sure.”_

_Their steps falter and stick on the tacky carpet in the hallway adjacent to the bar._

_He grabs her hand and whips her around into an alcove._

_He towers over her. She slides her palms from his chest to his shoulders. Martha sinks her fingertips into the downy curls at his nape._

_James draws closer._

_He leans in to kiss her but she turns so his lips caress her jaw instead._

_Call her old-fashioned, but kissing is for the first blush of love._

_This definitely isn’t that._

_Martha runs her lips over the divot below his adam’s apple. Stubble prickles her soft skin._

_He pulls her closer._

_She feels the whisper of his fingers across the fine hair at the small of her back._

_The pads of his fingers slide across her ribcage and tease the underside of her breasts._

_His thumbs find the peaks of her nipples beneath the gingham._

_Martha sighs into the crook of his neck._

_The intimacy shocks her so she pushes him away and slides to her knees._

_She takes in his musk as she mouths at the bulge below the denim._

_She commends herself for sliding the strap from the buckle without slapping herself in the face._

_Martha offers a honey-sweet smile as she reaches for his cock._

_She pulls him out and slides the head across her bitten-pink lips._

_He shudders. She thinks._

_A good sign._

_She kisses the glans for good luck and then slowly pulls it into her mouth._

_Martha tentatively slides her mouth up and down the shaft. She sucks a little harder as she pulls back toward the head. He tries to cradle her head, but she slaps his hands back on his hips._

_‘None of that.’ she thinks._

_Something at the periphery catches her eye._

_She sees Jon’s expressionless face glance away as he exits the men’s room._

_“Something wrong?” the wolf asks._

_“Nuh-uh”_

_She continues sucking and stroking until he spills onto her waiting tongue._

_Martha isn’t proud._

_Yes. She spit someone’s come onto the carpet in a bar hallway._

_She sighs._

_She really abhors the idea of spitting indoors._

_\----------------_

_Martha runs into Gen as she’s exiting._

_“I guess we both couldn’t find the bathroom,” Keats says with a smug smile._

_Martha turns pink like the meat of a ripe grapefruit._

_“I guess so.”_

_“Come on, let’s actually go drink,” Gen says._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martha was an actual person before she was Clark's mom.  
> There you go. 
> 
> Comments are welcome as always. :)


	4. A Real Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> I'm glad that someone's enjoying this little self-indulgence. Thank you for all the lovely comments thus far. 
> 
> No set posting schedule but I will be updating more regularly throughout the year. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are welcome :D

Martha draws her hand through the condensation on the glass.

She blows out a puff of air. 

Then she runs a hand through her hair and sighs again.

Martha draws on her courage and makes that appointment she’s been putting off. 

\----------------------

The clanging of the old phone in the kitchen calls her from the bouquet she’s arranging in the living room. 

“Hello?”

“Ma, I’m headed over.”

“All right honey.”

In the next moment, Clark’s solid steps cross the threshold of the little white house. 

Martha was met with her son’s shining smile that slowly went stiff at the corners. 

“Ma…”

“What? What is it? Did something happen?” Martha asks.

Clark vaguely points toward his own head while aiming a bewildered look her way.

“Oh.  _ Oh _ . Yeah---I got it done.”

The tousled bob is a touch wheat gold with silver strands framing her face. 

“It’s...nice,” he finally says.

Clark takes her in and his brows slowly raise toward his hairline. 

His mother is wearing a dress with a new cardigan and---heels. 

“Are you headed somewhere? I can come back,” he offers. 

“Clark. I’m always happy to have you over. Plus, I’m not going out ‘til later,” Martha replies. 

Martha goes back to humming to herself as she places the sunflowers in the vase.

“Okay, well, Lois can come over for dinner Sunday,” Clark says. 

He rummages through the fridge and pulls out plastic containers filled with last night’s dinner. 

They sit around their little table and chat about the new piece he’s working on. 

“It’s bad Ma. This---vigilante lords over people in the shadows. Brands criminals with his insignia. Worst of all...he dresses like a bat.” 

A beat of silence.

“You do wear a blue leotard in your spare time,” Martha says gently.

Clark pauses with a lump of food still in his right cheek.

Martha’s eyes dance with mirth as she sips her coffee. 

“Well honey...he brands criminals?”

“Yes.”

“Somehow that quote about the road to hell comes to mind,” Martha says.

“Ma, if you’re defending---”

“Hear me out.”

Clark heaves a heavy sigh. 

“You’re devoted to truth. Love it. But sweetheart, what you’ve told me about Gotham? Sometimes you meet evil on its level. Even Jesus flipped tables,” Martha says with a shrug. 

Clark continues to stare, but he’s started eating again.

Martha knows his mind is still made up. 

Her stalwart boy. 

\---------------------------

Once again Bruce has left her a little off-kilter. 

They’re sitting at a charming bistro table covered in blue and white check vinyl. 

Her smile softens. 

He fills her wine glass over the roast chicken, mashed sweet potatoes and greens. 

“So, how are you enjoying Zola?” Martha asks. 

“Important themes about man versus nature. The struggle for beauty amid squalor. It’s nice.”

“Wow. You really liked the Wiki pages?” 

“Pardon me but  _ fuck _ . He’s good but it’s slow going,” Bruce replies. 

“Impatient?” Martha asks.

“Not always. Patience can reward those who wait with a better finish.”

Her skin prickles as she shifts in her seat. 

He grins like he’s enjoying something. 

‘Bastard’ she thinks.

She levels him with a searching gaze. 

Bruce motions for the check. 

\------------------------------

He hangs back to watch her.  

Her hips sway in the gossamer sundress that gets caught by the late summer breeze.

She gives him a pointed look just as his gaze snags on the hem sliding up her thighs. 

Bruce shrugs. 

She shakes her head. 

They peruse the little shops on Main Street. 

He stands behind her as she peers into the windows. 

Once, maybe twice, she lets her body fall gently back into his. 

His head rests atop hers for just a moment. 

She swears she feels the press of his lips on the crown of her head. 

But he slides away a moment later when she straightens. 

Off-kilter. 

Bruce walks her to the truck and opens the driver-side door. 

“I’ll call you,” Bruce says.

Martha nods with a small smile. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If someone ends up reading this far into the future, just know that it was trendy to dye one's hair silver or get silver highlights. 
> 
> Let me know what you think :)


	5. A Requiem & A Prelude

Jonathan was more man than enigma. 

Martha never liked that type much. 

His steely eyes sought the sun breaking on the horizon with his jaw set. 

His lips set in a thin line, not from meanness or lack of affection, but simply because he was often caught in thought. 

Martha began to crave the warmth of his silence.

When they met she was a girl used to filling the air with empty silences and emptier words. 

On their first date, he brought her sunflowers. 

_ At the door, he held the bouquet in his hands with little ceremony. He gave them to her in a half-hearted motion.  _

_ “You look lovely,” he said.  _

_ They got into his beat up Chevy and drove deeper into the countryside.  _

_ Martha propped her feet up on the dash.  _

_ She took furtive glances in his direction yet he never seemed to mind.  _

_ Martha asked him about it much later, after they married. _

_ “Well you’ve got great legs,” Jon said with a shrug “Who am I to ruin the view?” _

_ She smacked him on the arm, then kissed him with all the sweetness of Saturdays. _

_ \---------------------------- _

The sun reveals only glimpses of itself amid the hazy banner of Gotham’s grey skies. 

Bruce finishes the knot of his tie and heads toward the car where Alfred waits. 

They drive quietly to the hospital. 

The silence is among Alfred’s many mercies. 

At the steps of a gleaming facade of glass and steel, the snapping flashes wait for him. 

The reporters clamor for his attention but he merely flashes a small smile before entering the wing. 

A grand chandelier with starburst shaped crystals bounces pin pricks of light onto the floor.  

Bruce shakes the hand of the hospital’s chief Zelda Eissendorf. 

He smiles politely as the man he doesn’t care to know makes a speech about the splendor of the Stephens wing without mentioning the woman for whom it is named. 

\-------------------------

{Fifteen Years Ago}

_ Alfred has been prodding him for the past hour.  _

_ “Alfred, please. Enough,” Bruce says.  _

_ “I haven’t said a word Master Bruce,” Alfred replies. _

_ Bruce gives him an unimpressed look.  _

_ “A little culture would be good for you. Perhaps you could use those season tickets?” Alfred says. _

_ “I’m keeping the lights on at the Met.” _

_ Alfred makes a disapproving sound in the back of his throat.  _

_ “Fine. We’ll go. Just give me a minute,” Bruce replies.  _

_ \------------------------ _

_ He shifts uneasily in the red velvet seat. _

_ Bruce could be combing his files right now, but he’ll indulge Alfred. _

_ The music begins to swell and he feigns focus to appease the man who raised him.  _

_ From below his perch in the balcony, a young woman appears from the shadows stage right.  _

_ Maia Stephens.  _

_ Aida. _

_ Slowly, she steps into the spotlight and her sienna skin burns in the golden light.   _

_ Her voice stirs a longing for home inside Bruce that he had muted long ago. _

_ When the curtains drop for last time after three bows to the audience, he knows he must meet her. _

_ \-------------------- _

_ The dozens of deep red roses he sent lay upon a mountain of bouquets vying for her attention. _

_ \-------------------- _

_ Without ceremony, Alfred places the breakfast tray to his right while he scans the text scrolling on his monitor.  _

_ Bruce eyes the familiar velvet box beside his plate.  _

_ He raises one eyebrow. _

_ “The lady thanks you for your gift. However, she deigns to accept such gifts from fans. Sir,” Alfred replies.  _

_ Something inside him stills and solidifies.  _

_ Alfred once remarked that if Bruce were to fall from a great height, he would throw himself at the chasm rather than suffer a meek slip from the edge. _

_ \--------------------- _

The spike in rhythm of his mother’s heart gives Clark pause during a slow work day. 

He goes outside and makes the call.

One ring. Then, another.

“Shhhh! Hello,” Martha answers. 

Her heart is beating rapidly yet there’s breathy laughter lacing her voice. 

“Hey Ma, are you all right?”

“Fine. Fine. What’s up?”

“Well, it sounds silly, but I…thought you…”

“Oh baby...Don’t worry about me so much,” Martha says.

“Ha.”

“I know. Don’t think any more about it. Love you.” she says.

“Love you.” 

They hang up. 

\----------------------

Bruce slips his hands around her hips and pulls her back to him. 

Martha picks up the mug of tea and lets the steam curl about her face while he noses at her neck. 

She slides it back onto the counter.

“Bruce.”

“Hmmm?”

“ **_Bruce._ ** ”

“Yes Martha?”

“I thought we were taking it slow.” 

“We are. Enjoy the moment.” 

“So, that’s your phone?”

“If you want it to be.” 

Martha turns around to smack his arm. 

Bruce chuckles. 

“It’s my phone.”

“Bruce I swear---”

She quickly lifts her hand for a second round. 

He captures her small hand in his and presses her fingertips to his lips. 

Martha inhales shallowly only to exhale sharply. 

Bruce leans in as she looks up at him with widening eyes. 

The insistent buzzing rises as his lips nearly graze hers. 

They watch each other through lowered lids.

“Fuck it,” he breathes against her mouth. 

He pulls her impossibly closer as her hands slide across his wide back.

Their lips slowly brush then caress softly. 

Bruce pulls her lower lip between his teeth before suckling on the top lip. 

They kiss with their lips inching open before closing yet again.  

His curious fingers tease across the worn cotton of her skirt as he slides it up her legs.

“Bru---”

“No?”

“Slow. Remember?” Martha replies.

Bruce reads her face and knows she meant no. 

For now.

More buzzing breaks the silence.

“That’s my phone.”

Martha smiles and shakes her head.

They finally part at the door. 

Martha presses her lips to the side of his mouth that usually quirks up. 

And so it does. 

“Good evening,” he says.

She simply nods.

The door closes with a soft snick. 

\------------------

Days later, he slinks about the cave with his shirt sleeves rolled up.

Bruce eyes Alfred. 

“The White Portuguese is not a man. It’s a ship,” Bruce says.

“Master Bruce, since the age of seven you have been to the art of deception as Mozart to the harpsichord.”

Alfred turns and Bruce is forced to return the piercing gaze. 

“But you’ve never been too hot at lying to me. The white Portuguese isn’t carrying a dirty bomb. What is it carrying?”

Bruce inhales before he pushes the truth between pursed lips.

“It’s a weapon. It’s a rock. A mineral capable of weakening Kryptonian cells.” he says.

“The first sample big enough to mean something turned up in the Indian Ocean three months ago---which is now aboard the White Portuguese being delivered to Lex Luthor---who I’m going to steal it from.”

“To keep it out of Luthor’s hands. To destroy it.” Alfred says.

“No.” 

A brief but heavy silence passes. 

“You’re going to go to war?” Alfred asks.

“That son of a bitch brought the war  **to us** two years ago.” Bruce says. 

“Jesus Alfred. Count the dead. Thousands of people. What’s next? Millions? He has the power to wipe out the entire human race and if we believe there’s even  **a one percent chance** that he’s our enemy, we have to take it as an  **absolute certainty** . And we have to destroy him.”

“He is not our enemy,” Alfred replies.

“Not today.”

“Twenty years in Gotham Alfred. We’ve seen what promises are worth.”

Bruce’s bitter confession sharpens his gaze.

“How many good guys are left? How many stayed that way? Fourteen hours.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're picking up on the D/s crumbs I'm dropping. 
> 
> Also, Bruce is a master of compartmentalization. 
> 
> Anyway, I would love comments. 
> 
> Come talk to me on my blog: blk-glitter-girl.tumblr.com :D


	6. 6. Jealous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while but here's the new chapter. 
> 
> Thanks to A on tumblr who loves this fic so much and has been really encouraging.

Martha hurriedly glances from one sign board above the aisle to the next.

 ‘Damn it. I just want coffee.’ she thinks.

 Two entire aisles have been cleared and dedicated to orange and black foil wrapped candy.

 Nothing is in its usual place.  

 In the periphery, ‘BRUCE’ jumps out at her in that noxious yellow all the tabloids use.

 So she stops in the middle of the walkway and gets her heel clipped by the front of the cart behind her.

 “So sorry,” Martha says.

 Drawn in despite her aversion to gossip-as-news, she looks around nervously before pulling the magazine from its place.

 The magazine devoted six pages to the cover story. Six.

 “Ugh.”

The right-hand page is collaged with pictures of Bruce at varying ages with several beautiful people. The amassed timeline of his supposed lovers spills across the plum background.

The center picture looms above the rest with a platinum blonde woman clutching Bruce and kissing him below his jaw.

Martha kisses him there.

She takes a measured breath.

Her eyes dart toward copy.

 

‘Bruce Wayne was spotted with prominent socialite Celeste Warner at the Gothamites for Children gala held earlier this month.

Sources close to the pair say that they are getting really close.

They were first seen in Central Park last year shortly after the Black Zero event.

Warner reportedly made a $20 million dollar donation toward the Gotham reconstruction efforts, which included the pavillion in the financial district where Wayne Financial was located.

 The pair crossed paths many times over the months. Most notably at the opening of the Basilica Hotel where they were seen canoodling in a booth in the members-only area above the main dining room.

 Gotham’s most eligible bachelor might finally give up the single life for something sweeter.’

 

She wants crush the gossip rag in her palms, but she merely closes it and slides it onto the conveyor belt with three other magazines like it.

 

\------------------

The photo in magazine number three causes her to pause mid-flip.

Her own face looks out at her in a 3”x 4” inset alongside Bruce smiling in a smarmy manner.

Martha’s carefully roller set hair sweeps across her face to cradle her cheekbones and kiss her delicate chin.

‘It’s not unflattering’ she thinks.

‘Who is the mystery woman he was with in Metropolis last month? Is Bruce enjoying a May-December tryst across the bay?’

Martha slams that one into the bin but not before she rips the photo out and gently presses it between the pages of her diary.

 Her phone lights up with his name.

 She hears it buzz and lets the screen darken at least twice.

 He calls again.

 Martha stares at the screen long after it has turned black.

 

\-----------------------

 Martha wipes the stray drop of paint from her cheek. The winter white smears and becomes tacky.

 The yellowing paint was starting to add to the ache of being in this house alone. She needs something bright.

 The scratch and press of the roller against the wall blots out her thoughts until the the buzzing rises to the surface.

 “Bruce. Hi”

 “When should I come over Sunday?”

 “Sunday? Did we make plans?”

 “Not in so many words, but you have dinner with Clark on Sunday.”

 “I do,” she says on a sigh.

 “Have I offended you Martha?”

 “She’s quite striking. Your girl.”

 “Ah.”

 “That’s it. That’s all you’ve got. ‘Ah.’ For fuck’s sake!”

 “Now Marty…”

 “Oh, don’t you dare. I hate being like this. Why am I being like this? We’ve made no promises to each other. A few dates here and there. If you were dating other people and you wanted to date other people, I’d like a heads up. I hate being the last to know. Sometimes it’s worse than not knowing,” she says.

 “May I speak?” he asks.

 “Sure. I think you’ve had time to spin something convincing. Let’s hear it.”

 “That photo, wherever you found it, is doctored---”

 “Of course.”

 “Martha I intend to finish but I will hang up unless we can both say our piece.”

 She stays silent.

 “We did meet but only for business. It wouldn’t be prudent to finance reconstruction single-handedly and the board would flay me if I tried. There is no one else.”

 “There is no one else,” she repeats in a comical baritone.

 “There. Is. No. One. Else. I won’t repeat myself.”

 A warm knot of tension flares up in her core. Not unpleasant.

 “Sunday?” she says timidly.

 “Sunday.”

 He hangs up.

 

\---------------------

 Clark touches down in the corn field and strolls up the driveway as he has many times before.

 He hears Mom humming ‘Once Upon a Dream’ and he smiles.

 In the kitchen, Clark piles the turkey high on the buttered slice and crowns it with thick slabs of tomato.

 He steals a look at his mother.

 Martha worries at her lip as she stirs the sweet tea even though the need for stirring has long since passed.

 Clark doesn’t ask “wanna talk about it?”

 He hears the “no, I’m all right sweetheart” before he even thinks about it.

 He wonders about the cologne clinging to certain corners that wood polish and all-purpose cleaner can’t reach.

 Clark definitely doesn’t ask about that.

 Martha lifts her head and smiles gently at him.

The generous pearls in her lobes catch the light and he wonders who this guy is.

 

\-------------

 As he hovers silently above the house bathed in darkness, Clark sees the tall, dark silhouette slip out of the vintage car.

The man appears to have caught the space Clark just occupied, but that’s not right.

“Come in.”

Clark has never heard his mother sound quite like that.

He hears the press of lips against skin and he abruptly sends his hearing farther out as he glides away.  

 

\--------------

Bruce scans the photos on the mantle.

Martha gazing at the camera in a white dress.

A boy of about eight holding a trophy. A bright-eyed young man in a cap and gown. The same young man, older now, holding a shaggy dog with a beaten-up baseball cap shading his eyes.  

“Did you wanna open this? Sauce is almost ready,” Martha says.

“It’s just us tonight it seems,” Bruce says.

Martha throws the pasta into the colander.  

He searches for her eyes but she doesn’t look up.

The weight of his palms on her shoulders stops her.

She turns in his grasp. He chuckles as he puts the full colander in the sink.

“Sweetheart,” he says.

Bruce raises her chin and caresses the skin along her jawline.

He sees some regret and a heavier sadness in her dusky hazel eyes.

“What is it?” he whispers.

Martha lets out a humorless laugh.

“You know, sometimes I catch myself before I do it.”

He waits.

“I’ll think of something silly and I’ll turn to tell him because he’s just eating lunch and we always chat during lunch. It’s been 18 years to the day and I still do it.”

Martha gives a half-hearted shrug.

Bruce simply holds her.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome :D
> 
> Come talk to me! @ blk-glitter-girl.tumblr.com


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